


Sharpen Your Teeth Against My Skin (Make Me Bleed Again)

by Silent-Wordsmith (Shatteredsand)



Series: Inhuman [1]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Female on Male Violence, Hate Sex, Power Play, Pseudo-Incest, dubcon, male on female violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 05:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2495438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shatteredsand/pseuds/Silent-Wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She tries to break his jaw.</p><p>It's not the first time they've fought like this. Hell, it's not even the first time this week. If his boyfriend and her girlfriend weren't friends, he'd have been banned from the dorm weeks ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharpen Your Teeth Against My Skin (Make Me Bleed Again)

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration between me and my very own personal Will. My Beautiful Bastard, who wishes to remain anonymous. PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE WARNINGS, THERE IS POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING MATERIAL HERE

She tries to break his jaw.

It's not the first time they've fought like this. Hell, it's not even the first time this week. If his boyfriend and her girlfriend weren't friends, he'd have been banned from the dorm weeks ago.

If he weren't her brother? Make that months.

He ducks around her blur of a fist, laughing nastily. "That all you got, kitten?"

Then she smashes his face into the bathroom mirror and all bets are off.

He spits a glob of blood onto the floor and delivers a flurry of blows that she easily avoids, chuckling darkly in her way. But he's pissed and she's still amused, and that makes a difference. He scores a glancing hit off her side that makes her wince, and follows it up with ducking under her defense—giving him the chance to headbutt her in the face.

She stumbles out of the bathroom back into the dorm proper, her eyes coming alive with rage. He approaches, laughing with genuine amusement now.

She grabs a pair of scissors and slashes across his cheek. The red of the blood against the white of his teeth as he grins, grabbing her wrist and slamming it against the wall until her weapon falls away.

She jabs her knuckles into his throat and slips around him, not to get away, but to change the angle.

She knows Laura will never understand how good it feels to get blood on your hands. How it can be a relief.

Will lunges toward her and it begins again, a rat-tat-tat of attack and defense that both know like they know the feel of their skin, the feel of each other's bodies pressed against walls and shoved into floors and bleeding. Will misses a beat, and pretty soon Carmilla's swung _him_ around, his head pulled back and his throat flush with the dorm wall.

"I could snap your neck," she whispers, but they both know this is just part of the game they’ve been playing for decades. "Save myself a lot of trouble."

"There's nothing you could do to me I wouldn't brush off, Callah. Don't even try." He chuckles, because it's true. What haven't they done to each other? There are bleeding lesions between them; the kind that never heal, that fester and infect. Toxic. He feels the open wound that's blossomed against his cheek, licks the blood from his lips. “Besides, who’d play secret agent man for you then, kitten?”

She shoves him harder against the wall, just to hear the sound of cracking plaster, and presses her mouth to his ear. "You’re useful, but I don’t need you. You think I don't have a trick up my sleeve? You think there's nothing I could do to remind you who owns whom?”

"Try me, kitten." Even with his face pressed against the dorm wall, arms slick with his own blood, Will is smug.

Until Carmilla slips a hand down the back of his trousers.

"What the fuck are you doing?" There’s a note of something almost similar to panic in his voice. They don’t do this. This isn’t the way it goes. This is not how it works. Will shifts, but she holds him firm and laughs, full of brimstone and ashes.

"Silly little Willy-boy, thinking that the rules of the game can't change under his feet." The feel of her fingernail, sharp and inviting, circling the place even Kirsch doesn't go. "You wanted violence? Well, boy, have I got a flavor for you."

He struggles, but she holds him firm as she pushes in. A stream of obscenities—German, Czech, even the French ones don't sound so lovely right now. He's sick to his stomach as she presses in, forcing a physical pleasure he can't fight off. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t, he doesn’t, he _doesn’t_. But there’s a need there, something he can’t name—wouldn’t even if he could—pressing in on him, as unyielding and rough as Carmilla’s finger inside him.

He exhales from the pressure, his undead nervous system lighting up like Christmas, before the rage bubbles up within. She thinks she's the only one who can play this game?

He shoves off from the wall, his sudden strength surprising her, and pushes her towards the dorm kitchen. Shoves her, shocked and stumbling, against the counter. His hands harsh, nearly clawed, against the soft skin of her sides. He imagines digging them in, the spurt of crimson that would splatter, the feeling of scratching his name into her ribs. Who would own whom, then? With him written all over, _inside_ , of her.

"You want me to stop?" He grins. "Is it too much for you? Do you need to _run off_ again, go crying to your little nerd?"

"Fuck you." It’s more snarl than speech, but Will has always understood Carmilla best when she’s like this. Vicious and cutting and cruel, her blood under his nails and his sinew between her teeth.

"Wouldn't you like that, kitten." His grin is wide and arrogant and, he knows, maddening.

She kisses him hard—violently, more teeth than lips, all aggression and rage and unnamable need—and shoves his back against the wall. He hits with a heavy thunk and the sound of crumbling drywall, white ash dusting over the both of them. He can feel her practically daring him to pull back. Instead he swings her around to press her against the wall this time, his hands running roughly down her sides and clasping her ass.

Her nails scour bloody marks down his sides, cut into his hips, as she pulls him closer, refusing to give even a single inch. “Come on then, Willy. Make me like it.”

A growl rumbles low at the back of his throat, barely contained behind bared teeth. He surges forward to bite her lip within his kiss, tastes blood painfully familiar. Her fangs drag against his neck, the echo of a memory he’s almost allowed himself to forget. He nearly throws her onto the desk. A smattering of unimportant shit, clattering and shattering as it flies of in a flurry of limbs eager to clear space. The floor is slick with blood when he kneels down. His fingers harsh as he shoves her skirt up around her hips, shreds through black tights without thought—they’re in the fucking way—to drive his fingers and tongue so deep into her she can't breathe.

This is new. Unexpected. Not the way that this works at all. There’s the violence and the blood and the hazy line between bloodlust and actual lust that they’ve swerved across before. But it’s never been like this. Never like _this_.

Will works his fingers inside of Carmilla with something bordering on fervent desperation. The need is back, coiling low in his stomach and spreading, like burning, like hellfire, throughout his long dead corpse. A hitch of breath she doesn’t need held for longer than any mortal could. Then release, long and drawn out and loud. And so very pleased.

He pulls away, smug, “Look at that, kitten. Still doing all the _fucking_ work.”

“Shut. The fuck. Up.” Carmilla’s voice is full of dark promise, gore slick on her teeth. A traitorous part of Will thinks, unwillingly, that she has never looked more beautiful. “Or I’ll do it my fucking self.”

But her fingers are knotting in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling at it with vicious intensity as she directs his mouth back against her soaking cunt. Part of him, most of him even, wants to stop. Deny her this. It’s a sudden rush, the feeling of power that he could. He could stop this, move away, leave her dripping and wanting and _needing_.

He almost does it, almost manages to be strong enough to leave her desperate for him. But there’s an aching in his bones that screams out, echoes in his blood, and he can’t. He hates it, he hates it, he _hates_ _it_ , but he doesn’t have it in him to _stop_.

“That’s my good boy.” Carmilla purrs, a long drawn out breath of pleasure masquerading as speech.

The aching, burning need ignites. Implodes. Starbursts of blinding white and sickly yellow and gritty garnet pulsating behind closed eyes.

How dare she. How _dare_ she.

With a trembling rage, Will jerks from her grip. He can feel a fistful of his hair stay behind in her clenched hands, but he can’t muster the give a damn to care. His fangs are out when he looks up at her, and he can see the moment the realization of what she’s done hits. The widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips—as if she might actually apologize for this, this one slight too far—then his tongue is in her mouth. Because he doesn’t want to hear it, to see it, anymore.

This is beyond them.

There is something forgiving in the way she lets him kiss her, in the control she allows him to take. Not quite apologetic, because all the gods ever worshipped by man and monster alike know that Callah is seldom capable of that, but...absolving.

He doesn’t want to feel that. He refuses.

He doesn’t remember putting a hand to her throat, doesn’t recall when he decided to tighten his grip around the column of pale skin and silent pulse, but he can feel her struggling to breath against his palm. He likes it. He likes it a lot.

Without breaking the kiss, without releasing her throat, Will slips a hand down to his jeans. Too impatient for buttons and zippers, hears the ripping of the fabric as he tears them open, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he _does_ _not_ _care_.

“Who belongs to who, Callah?” He’s posed at her entrance, and he doesn’t want this but he does. A conflicting mess of rage and hatred helplessly tangled in family and blood and need. It is wild and brimming beneath the surface of his skin, seeping out of his pores like the sickest madness. He wants to own her, in this moment, if never again. He wants her to submit, give it up. Let him have this. Just this, just once.

Carmilla doesn’t answer him, of course the bitch doesn’t, responding by wrapping her legs around his hips and pulling him in. He sinks into her wetness with a groan he hadn’t meant to let escape. The only consolation in her answering moan. Low and shaking and needing. Needing him.

“Like that, kitten?” There’s a weakness in the words. A pathetic, simpering want. He wants her to say yes. He wants her to like it. He hates that he does, but he does.

“Just _move_ already.” Grit out, oozing between the cracks of her teeth. Like blood. Like _his_ blood. Her eyes open again, narrowed at him with hatred and rage and impatience.

“Tell me you want it.” If he can’t have what he wants, then he’s going to make her beg. Eighty years and thousands of untold torments shared between them, and he’s never heard her beg.

“Move, or so help me, by the gods, I will fucking move you.” There’s a promise behind the words. Will knows she could do it, too. Has come close before, if never quite this close. The stinging truth of it, rearing its ugly head again—as if he could remember to forget. She’s so much older than him, so much stronger. She doesn’t need his cooperation here, probably doesn’t even _want_ it. She could hold him down, do what their kind was built for. Take what she wants from him. He couldn’t stop her. He would fight and struggle, and she’d probably get off on it, but he couldn’t _stop_ her.

He moves.

Rough, jagged motions. Sharp, jerking thrusts. Carmilla’s heels digging into ass, trapping him to her. Her nails gouging into the back of his neck, the meat of his shoulder blade, clawing down. Rivulets of blood drip-drip-dripping down his back. Her breathing, unnecessary, ragged in his ear. Little whimpering moans, gasping groans, pathetic pleadings slipping from both their throats, echoing in the small room. Deafening.

The pressure is building at the base of Will’s spine. Napalm thrumming in his veins and spilling out through the rips rendered into his skin. Spilling out and soaking his clothes, Carmilla’s clothes, the floor, everything. Everything is burning. Every nerve that should have ceased feeling nearly a century ago, every irrelevant breath pulled into dead lungs, every nonbeat of two long stilled hearts.

Carmilla’s orgasm, the sudden tightening around him, is a surprise. So lost in the moment, the feeling of self-immolation, he’d nearly forgotten what has sparked the flames in the first place. With remembrance comes the fall, tumbling into the fires of pleasure and loathing.

A single moment of pure peace. Whited-out, unthinking, _bliss_.

Then reality comes rushing back and, satiated and sickened, Will pulls out. His footsteps faltering as he backs away, trying to yank his pants up. As if he could forget this by merely walking away. As if her marks aren’t carved into his skin, burned in his blood.

There’s an exhaustion thrumming through him, mostly unfamiliar. Like a feeling of déjà vu, he recalls the sensation. Something from his human days, so long past. Blood loss. He’s experiencing blood loss. The irony of it is so great he can’t stop the laughter—wild and manic and just the wrong side of hysterical—from bubbling up past his lips.

He’s not really paying attention to where, exactly, he’s going. Just trying to put a bit of distance between himself and Carmilla and the things they’ve done. Carmilla, however, must be watching him more carefully than he’s watching himself. There’s a low growl when approaches a bed—something bright had caught in his fuzzy eyesight—and then a shove that he should have been quick enough to see coming, if not avoid outright.

He careens to the side, loses the battle against gravity, falls. Lands on something soft and reeking of Carmilla. Oh. Her bed. He must have been heading, blindly, towards Laura’s. Gods forbid he touch something of the nerd’s. He needs to sleep. He needs to sleep and feed and then sleep some more. He can’t die like this, of course, he’s not so fragile. But it’s a weakness he can’t afford to have right now. Playing double agent for his stupid, perfect boy and his selfish bitch of a sister and her little pet…he can’t afford to show Mother any kind of vulnerability.

Just as he’s mustering his strength to rise and get the fuck out of there, there’s a pressure against his chest. A hand pressing him back down.

She’s fallen into the bed with him. What the _fuck_.

“Shut up. I’m tired.” It’s a mumble, and she sounds nearly as tired as Will feels. He manages to take some smug pride in that, at least. “Don’t move, you’ll wake me up and then I’ll have to kick your ass again.”

He bristles at that, wants to assert that his ass had in no way been kicked, but he’s so fucking tired.

He doesn’t really mean to fall asleep. He means to get up and walk out with a pithy remark, because fuck Carmilla, but his eyes ease closed despite himself. And then he’s sleeping amongst the dead once more.


End file.
